


And They're Off

by mcpriceley



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: 'i'm gonna make this multichaptered!', M/M, and even better, hey its me im sorry, i was all, like what gall do i have right, this is post-everything in the show
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-12
Updated: 2018-01-17
Packaged: 2019-02-13 21:00:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12992418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcpriceley/pseuds/mcpriceley
Summary: Michael liked documentaries.Michael liked cherry, lip-staining red slushies, Michael liked food that he could barely pronounce from cultures that he would take the time to extensively research until there was nothing he didn’t know, and he liked reggae and 70s soft rock on vinyl, and $2 video games that stopped being mass-produced in the 90s, and he liked listening to the same song for hours until he had every melody and harmony and interval memorized and could practically tattoo the lyrics to his forehead.And Michael couldn’t be himself around Jeremy.





	1. one.

Michael liked documentaries.

Michael liked cherry, lip-staining red slushies, Michael liked food that he could barely pronounce from cultures that he would take the time to extensively research until there was nothing he didn’t know, and he liked reggae and 70s soft rock on vinyl, and $2 video games that stopped being mass-produced in the 90s, and he liked listening to the same song for hours until he had every melody and harmony and interval memorized and could practically tattoo the lyrics to his forehead.

And Michael couldn’t be himself around Jeremy.

Who was Michael, anyway, but a lonely kid who found himself through another person? Michael _found himself through Jeremy._

He didn’t just update him whenever he made a new self-discovery. No, Jeremy had always been a part of that process. Maybe that was where he’d gone wrong. When Jeremy disappeared from his life, Michael felt like a piece of his own identity had disappeared, too. There was probably some psychological condition for that, but he didn’t really give a shit. He’d dealt. And things were better now. Better than they had been, at least.

At least now Michael knew that he couldn’t attach himself to any one human being, let alone Jeremy. He knew that he needed a balance, and that if the things he used to enjoy suddenly didn’t appeal to him, it was probably because he only liked it _for_ Jeremy. Because it _reminded him_ of Jeremy.

But Michael knew one thing about himself: he wasn’t the same kid he was even one short month ago.

Now that Jeremy was _back,_ and Jeremy took the fact that Michael had yet to write an open letter of his hatred for the boy to mean that he should casually call him up and look to go out like old times, Michael was toeing the line of insanity.

So, yeah, it was pretty fucking strange for them to just… _talk?_ Do things? Like they used to do? Because they _weren’t_ who they used to _be._

Which is why, when Michael’s phone buzzed, he’d nearly gotten an anxiety attack. And not just because of the pot that he had in his hand, but not in his system.

He’d even had to change Jeremy’s name from ‘Player 1’ because it gave him a spike of unwanted…                                                       

_From: Jeremy_

_Hey, man! You busy rn? If I enticed you with pizza, could I come over for some games?_

Huh.

Well, one, Michael may have been working on his independence and maturity, but it hurt like a bitch to hear that Jeremy had to _ask_ to come over. They’d never had to do that before.

Two—since the whole ‘Jeremy hates me and we’re not friends anymore but clearly I’m a better person than he is, so I’m going to save his life’ ordeal, they had not hung out at each other’s houses.

_They had not hung out at each other’s houses._

It was far, far too personal. Going back to Jeremy’s bedroom or Michael’s basement would be touchy, and bring to surface the exact kinds of feelings Michael’s been trying to pretend, desperately, that don’t exist. Michael went into a kind of temporary shock, because what, was he going to say, ‘No, I don’t want you to make me feel more emotions than I think I’m even capable of giving you in return, because I was the idiot who invested too much in _us_ originally, and now that there isn’t really an _us_ as a foundation, I don’t want to—’

_From: Jeremy_

_Well, the pizza is bought, so I’m gonna bribe you by letting you know that there will be a fresh and delicious pepperoni pizza just feet away from you in a matter of minutes_

Fuck. How long was he tapped out for? He found a book for his joint, and gently placed it on top so as to not lose anything—he was going to need it—

Oh, God, a matter of _minutes?_

Michael panicked, and looked around him, at himself, and at his _room._ He was sitting there in underwear and socks that looked like they were only worn on Bob Marley’s laundry day, a pathetic cup of used roaches next to his television, a packed joint resting on a nerdy history book he’d taken to reading, and a nature documentary that he really found soothing when he got just the right kind of high and—

His phone buzzed. A voicemail from Jeremy.

\--And he reached for his phone—

_“Hey, I’m… Shit. Are you busy? I mean—I—I got pepperoni, because that’s… like, your favorite, right? Yeah. N-no, yeah, and I—fuck. I didn’t think this…”_ Michael swallowed, his fingers curling around his palm and pressing just a bit too harshly. He heard a sigh on the other end. _“You’re not responding. I don’t know why I did this when you’re literally not—this was—wow. Okay. I’m—cool. I—I’ll see you… on… tomorrow. Cool. Um…”_

He heard a click, and despite the fact that his hands seemed to be shaking a little, he jumped up, bounced on the balls of his feet, and then hurried for the front door. He opened it just in time to see Jeremy starting to walk down the street, most pathetically, with an entire pizza pie in hand.

“Jeremy!”

Michael’s voice shook, but he could chalk it up to ‘excitement.’ For fuck sake…

Jeremy turned around with wide eyes, and allowed himself to quirk a smile. As if it were practiced and habitual, he bit down the smile that formed upon seeing Michael, and he merely raised his eyebrows as he walked back up the pavement. And Michael was nervous, for a moment. _Jeremy_ didn’t fix himself like that around Michael. He didn’t keep himself from smiling, and _edit_ himself so grossly--

“Hey, Michael—I, um—” His gaze shifted. And Michael could have smiled. The stutter was back. The shiftiness and surface insecurity was back. God, Michael felt pathetic. He tore his eyes away. “—I got the…” Jeremy took another deep, slightly shaky breath, holding up the box. “You in?”

Michael only bit the inside of his cheek, and held the door open wider for him to walk on in. “What are you doing here?”

Jeremy had taken only one step into the house before he stopped, all color draining from his face as he turned his head to look at Michael. Oh, no, oh no… “I—I—”

Michael opened his mouth, but as he was having trouble even _breathing,_ words took a bit more time. “…You just—surprised me, is all.”

That didn’t deter the guilty look on Jeremy’s face. God, even _that_ looked unnaturally habitual. Michael hated it, he hated it, he _hated it._

Jeremy scuffed his heel against the floor, and then kept his chin tilted down a bit more as he walked further into the house. He had… quite a few things very clearly expressed on his face. One being nostalgia, and two being… something even Michael couldn’t figure out just by looking at him. But, God, did he want to.

“You headed downstairs?”

Michael nodded, “Yeah, I just gotta…”

He finally looked down at what he was donning.

_Fuck!_

“ _Uh—_ on second thought, give me _one s_ econd?” He rushed past Jeremy, purposely far enough to not even brush his arm, and bound down the stairs so fast that Jeremy hung back out of fear of what Michael might be hiding.

“…Dude, what…”

“One second!” Michael called back, and hid the joint that he felt pathetic for even wanting to smoke as much as he did, as well as the lighters and roaches and whatnot, and turned off the tv, and when he heard the ever-rebellious Jeremy start to walk down the stairs anyway, he opened up a drawer to throw on a pair of sweatpants.

Jeremy was chuckling, but anyone with eyes and ears could tell it was awkward. “What are you hiding, a human body?”

_No,_ Michael thought, _I don’t have any other friends._

He awkwardly chuckled right on back.

“ _No,_ it just, it was… uh… messy, is—is all.”

For a second, he saw a forlorn look flash across Jeremy’s eyes, and he wondered why he even felt so self-conscious around him in the first place nowadays.

_‘Get out of my way, loser.’_

…Oh.

Right.

“—Michael?” Jeremy had furrowed his eyebrows. When Michael looked attentive and alive once more, he confusedly repeated, “…Where do you want the… pizza?”

Michael knelt on the ground, shoving the beanbag chairs out of the way as he patted the hardwood floor. He didn’t exactly want to sit on the beanbags. Too many memories. And Michael didn’t want Jeremy to have the power of affecting him emotionally, anymore.

Jeremy seemed to grind his teeth together for a moment or two, another nervous tick that Michael selfishly relished in seeing make a comeback post-Squip. He knelt down a whole two feet away from him, and put the box between them to serve as only another barrier. Jeremy’s hands were in fists. Jeremy wouldn’t look up from the lid. And then, Jeremy was speaking to him.

“Michael, I want to ask you something.”

God, who just _says that?_ Who asks a phrase so plainly and vaguely and expects Michael to not nervously lick his lips and tuck his hands underneath his thighs so as to keep their shaking hidden from the boy he so desperately wants to impress?

He had to impress him to survive with him, now. Jeremy didn’t just love Michael for who he was—Jeremy liked things and people of worth. He had to be worth Jeremy’s time. He had to _work_ towards keeping him around, and, well, that posed a serious problem, because Michael was the same old loser he always was. He had nothing to fucking offer, oh God, he had _nothing to offer…_

“Yeah?”

It was miraculous he didn’t mimic Jeremy’s stutter.

Jeremy looked up, and something… changed. Michael couldn’t tell what it was. He couldn’t tell anything about Jeremy anymore. But he knew that whatever fire was under his ass burned out in a matter of seconds. “…I brought the original vintage version of House of the Living Dead. You wanna try to do it all in one go?”

Michael covered his frantic mind with a tight-lipped smile. “Aw, man, I was just getting into the meat of the Muppet Party Cruise, dude…”

And Jeremy laughed.

And, just for that second, Michael could believe that he was really here, and that they were _them._


	2. two.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But it was pressing. Jeremy wasn’t pressing him, nor was Michael pressing Jeremy, but the issue itself seemed to be jabbing them both in the sides every couple seconds. Every time Michael finally thought that they were okay and that the illusion was working, fate had an evil way of reminding him that he was sorely mistaken, and Jeremy should not be here right now.
> 
> Michael just wanted some kind of control over his life again.
> 
> Was that too much to ask?

It doesn’t get better.

Michael would like to call bullshit on every anti-suicide ad he’d ever seen, because it does not fucking get better. With Jeremy around, it only got worse.

He and Jeremy had been able to distract themselves from the thick air for an hour or so. Thank God for mindless first-person shooter zombie games, right?

But it was pressing. Jeremy wasn’t pressing him, nor was Michael pressing Jeremy, but the issue itself seemed to be jabbing them both in the sides every couple seconds. Every time Michael finally thought that they were okay and that the illusion was working, fate had an evil way of reminding him that _he was sorely mistaken, and Jeremy should not be here right now._

Michael just wanted some kind of control over his life again.

Was that too much to ask?

“…So…” Jeremy sucked in his lips, and the action caused his dimple to come into light. Michael really wished it hadn’t. He was staring at Jeremy’s fucking dimple, of which he’d only been dreaming of lately, instead of the video game. “—W-w— _dude!”_ Jeremy scolded in response, and let his face fall as he turned to… lock eyes with Michael.

Oh.

Michael was already looking at him, alright, with a blush, might he add. But that was only because Jeremy was staring at him. Michael wasn’t used to envisioning Jeremy and having Jeremy stare right back at him.

“Sorry!” Michael sounded breathless because he… was. Definitely was. Totally was, because he could only remember how to do one thing at a time right then, and breathing was not his priority, evidently.

Even when Michael turned back to the screen, Jeremy didn’t stop staring at him. And that’s why he felt the heat run down his neck, as well.

Jeremy was a mess.

Why he had even bothered to come here, he wasn’t quite sure. He’d been working _very_ hard on shaking off the instilled self-edits that the Squip had introduced to Jeremy. And yet, Michael was making him want to be perfect. Just being around Michael made him want to be… important, in his eyes? He didn’t know. He just wanted Michael to think more of him. He wanted him to know that all the turmoil wasn’t completely useless—was that really stupid, and really selfish? Did Michael care?

Jeremy bit the inside of his cheek as he thought, _Michael cares. You had this conversation. Or rather, he blurted it in anger, which means it has to be totally honest, right? Michael cares about being appealing and popular, which is why he’d care if you were just as nerdy as you were before. He’d probably hate you a lot more if it turned out that all that shit amounted to nothing at all._

“…So,” Jeremy started again, his voice a little deeper, and his gaze a little less unstable and nervous.

Michael licked his lips, swallowed, again, and didn’t do much else. It took time and effort to get his voice to come out as plain old _Michael’s._ “So.”

Jeremy chuckled, and the sound was so sweet and so soft that Michael had almost forgotten just _who_ was sitting next to him. His head whipped around towards him, and before they could die again, he pressed ‘pause.’

Jeremy had already opened his mouth and committed to continuing before he could be worried about what that shocked look on Michael’s face was. “Would you rather be playing the Muppets Party Cruise?”

Yeah, that had been the dumbest statement Michael had ever heard in his life.

But he knew that wasn’t what Jeremy meant.

The reason Michael had to push his glasses back up his nose, and nervously swing his knee back and forth a few times, and then crack his knuckles, was because he _knew_ what Jeremy meant.

Would he rather be alone, or is Jeremy’s presence okay?

Michael understood the real question, but he didn’t know the answer. Or the right answer.

Jeremy grew nervous under Michael’s contemplative gaze, and he started fidgeting with his hands, pulling at the sleeves of his cardigan and considering just pressing ‘resume’ on the game. “I—I didn’t mean to bother you. Tonight. R-really. I just… didn’t have anything to… to _do_ and I know that we’ve been going out only, but I wanted to be inside and chill out and I didn’t—”

“It’d be pretty shitty to spend another evening alone playing shuffleboard with a bunch of muppets.”

Jeremy bit the inside of his lip, and forced a tight nod and an even tighter smirk. Fuck. He’d been causing Michael to do a lot of that for some time, hadn’t he? Oh, shit, that was a _dig,_ wasn’t it?

Michael’s tone was just… just so _pointed_ and Jeremy didn’t know what to do with himself and he just sort of—

“Ha. Yeah,” Jeremy wasn’t really thinking about how dumb his words were. He was just talking. Endlessly. “But it could be equally as shitty as spending an evening playing House of the Living Dead on an emulated console with someone just as worthless…” He was, habitually, going to end his statement there, but upon seeing Michael’s eyes raise at the casual self-deprecation, he held the ‘s’ sound, and continued, “… _ly_ bored. Right?”

He noticed that the phrasing was getting much less vague. Still dumb as all hell, but less vague. It was only a matter of time until Jeremy stopped pussyfooting around and actually owned up to being a piece of shit.

_He did, in the hospital,_ Michael recalled, and God, maturity was fucking difficult. Michael was just lucky Jeremy was giving him this much. He couldn’t ask for more. _No, no, don’t do that. Maturity. You don’t need Jeremy to survive._ He gave the boy a confused look, instead. “Huh? No, no it couldn’t possibly be.”

There. Now if Jeremy cared, he’d pick up on the fact that Michael was speaking from a place of sadness and distrust, and not merely a _joke._

Jeremy was having trouble keeping up.

He furrowed his eyebrows in a way similar to Michael’s, and tilted his head as he tried to piece the puzzle of _where the hell is this conversation going_ together. After a few painful seconds of silence, Jeremy let out a sharp breath, “Dude, what are we talking about?”

Michael’s face heated once more as he resumed a neutral, dare he say vulnerable expression. _Stupid, stupid, stupid, Jeremy wasn’t using subtext in the first place. Who do you think he is?_ His words came out quickly, like he was ashamed of them. And he was. “I don’t know, what are _you_ talking about?”

Jeremy was quick to stop him from backtracking, though, the bastard. “No—” He held a finger up, already suspecting Michael was going to ‘move past it.’ Just like he always did. Sometimes he feared he knew Michael just a little too well. “You were trying to tell me something.”

There was a long pause, in which Jeremy looked into Michael’s eyes, and Michael looked right back, and neither of them wanted to be there, but neither of them wanted to be anywhere else in the whole world.

Jeremy’s ability to break the silence came with a price. The stammer. “C-can’t we just talk about this like normal f-friends?” Michael could’ve cried. He almost did. He’d been crying a lot lately. “Michael, I’m… I’m— _sorry._ I don’t—” Jeremy had to break the eye contact, too. Michael made him feel too many things, all the time—it was draining, when Jeremy knew that he hadn’t been protecting such a source of joy in his life like he should have been. “—I don’t like. Knowing that what happened, happened. But it did. S-so—so—so I think we should…” He was using his hands a lot, too. Either fidgeting or gesturing a tad too much, “y’know. Air our laundry out, or something. So,” he held his hands up, “if you go, I’ll go.”

Michael was about to roll his eyes. His jaw hung open for a moment with an amused, ‘come on’ look in his eyes.

But he looked into Jeremy’s eyes again. And suddenly the ‘come on’ look had a ‘please’ strung to the end of it.

“…Okay,” the word took forever to come to him, but when it did, something solid dropped between them. Something was happening, and Michael didn’t know what it was. He was a little afraid to find out. “I have a lot,” He was talking, because if he didn’t just fucking ramble, for better or for worse, he never would. “that’s happened to me. Talking about it isn’t going to change anything.”

Jeremy waited patiently for more, but it was definitive. A conversation-ender. Michael hadn’t been emotionally ready for the deflated look that washed over Jeremy.

“Dude—”

“Jeremy,” Michael sighed, took his glasses off to rub at his eyes, and then slid them back on. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Jeremy wasn’t used to this. Oh, God, that feeling, that aching, horrible, soul-crushing feeling in his chest was back, and it was pulling at him, telling him that something was desperately wrong here, but he didn’t quite know what it was or what to call it. Maybe it was a little bit of everything.

Jeremy wasn’t used to Michael saying ‘no’, to put it plainly. He couldn’t fathom Michael feeling _so_ out-of-place with him that he had to put an end to something like this, that he couldn’t see the bright side of the situation and _trust Jeremy._

_…Holy shit,_ Jeremy felt the heat of a fire around his body, settling in and burning him from the inside out as he realized what this all meant. _Michael doesn’t trust me._

Michael did not—

_Michael._

His best friend, his crutch, his everything for most of his life, he _was_ Jeremy’s world—

_That’s just it, isn’t it? Was. He was your world. Like you might have been his, at some point. You’re not there now._

Michael didn’t trust him. Michael wasn’t opposed to him, he hadn’t kicked Jeremy out, and he hadn’t wished he’d been alone or something, but he didn’t want to achieve the level of friendship they’d once had, because he either didn’t want _that_ anymore, or he didn’t…

Fuck.

What did _Jeremy_ want?

He wanted Michael. That was obvious. He wasn’t fully in control of his conscious mind, but he was trying his damned hardest, and he knew that some part of him wanted to immerse himself with Michael, more than anything. It was the _‘why’_ part that didn’t quite click for him.

Michael wanted to be casual friends, probably nothing more.

And Jeremy felt like crying because that’s not what he wanted at all.


	3. three.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael took a breath.
> 
> He’d been walking alone in thought for so long, he’d passed his house and he didn’t care one bit. Air was good for him, something to breathe in besides drugs.
> 
> Jeremy would be upset if he knew that Michael was smoking more than normal.
> 
> Or maybe he wouldn’t be all that upset.
> 
> Michael was getting pretty tired of listening to the same war in his mind all day long.

Jeremy went home after that.

It was a chicken shit excuse, too, something about his dad needing help last-minute Christmas shopping, but he knew it should be done.

He supposed he and Michael just weren’t ready for one-on-one hangout sessions yet. And a small part of Jeremy wondered if they ever would be.

…A _big_ part of Jeremy wondered if they ever _would be._

Michael wasn’t the only one plagued by thoughts of a certain kind. Jeremy suffered, too, every goddamn day that he hoped and prayed that he would wake up and every nightmarish thing that happened between them would somehow turn out to be a dream. Jeremy wanted to taste the world outside of his comfort zone. All he’d wanted was to feel what true exhilaration and danger was like, to be thrust into a place with people he didn’t know anything about. And now that he’d spent more than enough time on that side, all he really wanted was to go home.

Unfortunately, his home didn’t trust him anymore, and promptly built walls of steel between them while he’d been away.

But it was… cool. He was cool. He’d be fine. Yeah. Michael could… Michael deserved. Time to himself. Without Jeremy. Jeremy owed him that much. Jeremy owed him so, so much more. God, Jeremy was just trying to start making it up to him. That’s all he wanted to do. Michael didn’t want any of it.

Was Jeremy coming on too strong? He knew for a fact that he wanted something Michael didn’t.

…He didn’t know exactly what he wanted, but he knew that it had everything to do with _him._

Jeremy missed coming back to Michael’s place after school. And he missed playing video games until they could barely see straight, and leaving the background music on as they slouched back in their beanbags pushed together so their sides were touching as they talked about the universe and themselves on a deeper level than what anyone else was allowed to know. And then he missed the parts after, when he’d fall asleep with his cheek squished in Michael’s shoulder, and Michael had no problem just letting Jeremy indulge in his human sheet of armor and, sometimes, when he was in a particularly good mood, he would put his arm around his shoulders and cuddle right back.

Jeremy missed him.

He got that he fucked up. He _understood_ that part very well. He just wanted to know why Michael didn’t want to let Jeremy make up for his mistakes and get back to where they were before. Was it not all that he was thinking about, too?

Jeremy’s thoughts were obsessive. And they transcended from his conscious self to his dreaming self that night, in which he’d woken up thrice from Michael-induced nightmares. Michael hating him, Michael finding someone else to be in Jeremy’s place, and his personal favorite, Michael abandoning _him._ He could hardly believe that he had the fucking nerve to worry about Michael being the one to abandon him. As if he hadn’t outright—

Jeremy counted the hours of sleep he’d gotten. Four. Then again, he’d take what he could get. Weathering the storm seemed to be his MO as of late.

Michael, on the other hand, couldn’t wait for Jeremy to fucking go home in the first place. He just wanted to be alone to mourn, get high, and cry about what a naïve and difficult human being he was. All that he’d been daydreaming about for the past month was Jeremy trying to mend them, to see him come back and to be sure that he _wanted_ Michael, and to make Michael feel like he belonged in the world again.

Michael’s ‘healthy mindset’ bullshit was clashing with those desires, big time. He knew, deep down, that Jeremy didn’t hate Michael. It was just… hard for him to acknowledge that and be _happy_ about their current situation. Their situation was a kind of progress, sure. Only now Michael didn’t want to invest himself in Jeremy. Because he knew he could up and leave him again whenever he got bored. And Michael was never going to go through this depression again. Not twice in his lifetime. Michael had already suffered that first life-shattering heartbreak that every lyricist and composer alive seem to know about. He would be an outright idiot to give power back to the person who’d put him there.

And, for all that is holy, he found it incredibly _hard t_ o keep thinking like that. He could tell himself that it was fine and dandy, _preferable_ to coerce Jeremy into leaving earlier than intended, but it made every muscle in his body tense to watch the boy leave again. He was sort of hoping he’d stay.

Michael never liked to resort to it, but he’d ended up rolling a couple joints that night, and put an Arctic Monkeys album on full blast to drown out the rest of his thoughts. Talk about being the prime stereotype of an angsty teenager. It’s a good thing Jeremy left. He was just pathetic, was he not? God, was he fucked up. In more ways than one, now.

Michael dealt with the next day just the same.

And the next.

Jeremy wasn’t coming over anymore.

Michael didn’t want him to.

Jeremy knew.

Maybe Michael was the same person after all. Maybe all that progress he’d been waxing poetic about was just a front to make him feel like he wasn’t such a fucking piece of useless shit after Jeremy stopped caring. Maybe Michael was always going to be _that person,_ without ever having the emotional maturity to grow into someone new, and maybe he was always going to need Jeremy, and maybe the only answer was for him to fucking live his life alone because he couldn’t handle having a player two like normal people might be able to—

_God._

Michael took a breath.

He’d been walking alone in thought for so long, he’d passed his house and he didn’t care one bit. Air was good for him, something to breathe in besides drugs.

Jeremy would be upset if he knew that Michael was smoking more than normal.

Or maybe he wouldn’t be all that upset.

Michael was getting pretty tired of listening to the same war in his mind all day long.

_To: Jeremy_

_You busy tonight?_

Time moved slowly. The seconds felt like hours, the minutes days—Jeremy had expected Jesus to make his grand comeback before receiving the message that he had. He needed Michael to send him something else, to repeat that to his face, _anything_ to make it feel real. It couldn’t possibly be. Besides, Jeremy had plans. Brooke and Chloe wanted him to come shopping with them, because it was nice to have a ‘male’s’ opinion when it came to Christmas shopping or some shit like that—seriously, why did everyone ask _him?_ —and then Christine wanted to get his feedback on her new monologue, and his dad was expecting him for dinner, and Jeremy was already having a tough time trying to make ends meet for his night.

_To: Michael_

_Nope! Why? What’s up?_

Michael regretted everything he’d ever done the second the reply came through. He swallowed that pang of regret, and spent a few minutes thinking up some kind of coherent reply.

_To: Jeremy_

_I wanted to see a movie and don’t have a partner in crime. You game?_

He was suddenly mentally twelve, and full of regrets.

_To: Michael_

_AMC? What time were u thinking?_

He was getting it. He was getting something. He didn’t know what he was getting, but it was certainly something. From Michael. He wasn’t getting _Michael,_ but he was getting a piece of something, and Jeremy just couldn’t see a downside to that right then.


	4. four.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m—I did. Do everything wr—wrong. I don’t want to. I wanna—” He sighed. “’m sorry. You’re—you—you’re wastin’ your time with me, with me here, and I don’t wanna—Jeremy you— you’re worth—more than—” His words sounded like sharp chord progressions in his mind. God, he was embarrassing. Michael rubbed his hands over his face, and the choked sound he’d made shortly thereafter? He’d be proud to not remember it the next day.

Fuck, Michael was so fucked up, what the _fuck._ He never fucking learned. _Every_ time he got drunk, he drank just that _little bit_ too much that sent him into uncharted territory. Today, his body moved faster than his mind could register, and he could feel some sort of emotional breakdown coming on. He’d known it before he poured about eight shots of his mother’s Hennessey into his can of coke and then chugged it all in one go, but. Well. He was too far gone to really do anything about it.

Usually alcohol took about a half hour to _really_ hit you, didn’t it? So he was fine until then.

…Although, fifteen minutes in, just about, and he found himself sitting on his bed staring at the wall and just… thinking. Not even weed made him feel like this.

He thought about Jeremy. He and Jeremy going to the movies, he and Jeremy awkwardly trying to tame the fire, and simultaneously trying to keep it alight, him insisting that he had something else to do that night which was why Jeremy couldn’t just crash at his place like he might’ve expected to, and Michael reading an entire book cover to cover instead of sleeping that night for fear of being left to his own thoughts and devices. And then, of course, Jeremy acting all _concerned t_ he next day when Michael had come in to school, asking him why he looked like shit and what _he c_ ould do to make things better. Ha. Michael wanted to spit in his face. And kiss him. God, he’d rather not have to be drunk _or_ sober once in a while. Wasn’t there a third option somewhere in there?

Michael… had not blinked in a solid minute, he was fairly certain. When had the time gone from 8:15 to 8:30?

Michael…

_…Yeah._

Michael was… wow.

He stared at his own hands as they raised themselves to the wall, barely registering how it felt. It was like watching some sick movie, but it was _his body._ He blinked long and hard as he twirled his fingers in a lazy circle mid-air.

This surprisingly didn’t feel… all that bad, right now. It would soon, but Michael had yet to feel this damn good in a _long time._

And that brought another train of thought.

What had he done to deserve all of this?

What had Michael done to screw someone over in his 18 years of life enough to deserve sitting alone in his basement, getting way more drunk than any one human being should, _by himself,_ on a Saturday night? That was the kicker, wasn’t it? He was all alone here. Nobody wanted to come over and hang out with him, and nobody wanted to invite him out. Michael took his good life for granted while he had it, because he was doomed to be a loner for the rest of his fucking life. Jeremy pitied him. Michael didn’t like the way that sounded. Jeremy pitied him. Jeremy pitied him. Jeremy pitied him. Jeremy pitied him—

He felt a buzzing sensation, but all it did was confuse him. It took him a solid two minutes for the notification to buzz a second time for him to realize it was his phone. Goes to show how often that happened to him.

He had absolutely no filter for all this bullshit with eight shots of Hennessey in his system, a slight sugar rush, and only some oatmeal he’d had earlier that morning. He couldn’t bring himself to ingest anything more that day. It’s a good thing, too, or else he’d definitely feel sick.

It took him much longer than two minutes to look at his phone and register that there was an a _ctual fucking message on the screen. Someone noticed him. Someone knew he was alive._

_From: Jeremy_

_Hey._

Despite how loose his emotions were, Michael felt a tug at his heart, and he wasn’t sure why. All it fucking said was ‘hey’ and yet—

What _prompted t_ hat? Jeremy always had something to say, if he were to contact him. Something important to say. Well, sometimes it would be a meme, but if the reality being spoken of is their post-Squip hell, then yes, Jeremy only really texted him when he had something important to say.

Michael blinked at his phone.

His phone was wet.

What the fuck?

He looked up at his reflection through the dark television.

Holy _fuck_ did he look gross crying.

Why was he crying?

He looked at the sender of the text.

_Yeah. Him._

_To: Jeremy_

_What’s up, buddy?_

He really did cringe at the wording of his own damn text. No wonder this was the first time Jeremy had texted him for something unprecedented and unasked for in forever. It was probably the last time, too.

His reply, shockingly, came within a matter of seconds.

_From: Jeremy_

_You busy right now? Can I call you?_

A trillion anxiety-inducing words pattered across Michael’s mind. What could Jeremy possibly want with him over the phone? To tell Michael that he was an idiot and he was through with trying _them_ back on for size for him? Yeah. Try Halloween. That did it for him. Michael didn’t need another reminder.

_To: Jeremy_

_Call akwary._

 Jeremy called him, but it had taken so long that Michael was starting to question if it would ever come.

“Bro, what’s happenin’?” Michael picked up the phone, and could have laughed at how funny it all seemed to him. Jeremy asking to call him, Michael too fucking out of his mind to appreciate and store away the feeling of feeling wanted for a rainy day. Now if _that_ wasn’t the definition of desperate.

He heard Jeremy shift, and could practically hear how uncomfortable he was on the other end. _“What?”_

Michael would have felt self-conscious, if not for that wonderful, wonderful poison that was making him feel so _great._ “Dude, you wan’ed to call _me.”_

_“…You’re slurring your words.”_

“You’re… pronouncing your wo—your worlds. Words.”

Fuck. Oh, my God, fuck—

_“…Michael.”_

Now that just wasn’t fair. Michael was here having a good time, and as if it wasn’t painful enough hearing _Jeremy’s_ voice—

“Why’d you call me?”

More shifting. And Michael thought _he_ lacked confidence.

_“I just wanted to talk to you, Michael.”_

Michael actually laughed out loud, and, shit, he hadn’t exactly realized that he had done that. He heard Jeremy make a sound of discontent—disbelief?—and Michael was somewhat sucked back into reality.

A sigh from Jeremy later, and Michael felt like he was standing on the edge of a cliff, choosing between a painful longstanding reality or a quick and fleeting death.

_“…Listen, if you’ve got other plans right now—”_

Michael laughed again, but made a conscious effort to not let this one come out so patronizing. “Can’t a guy enjoy ‘mself on a S-Saturday— _night,_ Jeremy?”

Jeremy disapproved of Michael’s efforts, greatly. And thus, his words surpassed the voice saying that they might not be the brightest choice. “All by himself?”

Michael nearly dropped his phone.

Fuck.

Jeremy was onto him, and Michael knew it.

How could he possibly fool _Jeremy_ into thinking he was having a good time all alone with a burning “mixed drink” in his basement? He was lucky Jeremy wasn’t proclaiming he’d stop by right then just to mock him to his face. Why not just let it all in the open while Michael was feeling like a vulnerable piece of shit?

Michael felt so, so vulnerable.

He felt like crying.

He _was,_ with hot tears spilling down his cheeks, and neither of them speaking for a solid minute at least. He laid back on his bed, feeling his breathing become shallower and shallower, and his chest rise and fall at a more rapid rate, and his pillow’s wet spot began growing in size, and Michael’s head swam with the inevitable question: _why hasn’t Jeremy hung up yet?_

_“Dude—”_

“I’m so sorry,” Michael whispered. He had no idea why he had said it. He had a lot to apologize for, but if someone were to ask him for what in specific, he wouldn’t exactly have an answer. He didn’t hear anything on the line but more fucking nondescript shuffling, so he took in a shaky breath, “…’m s-s— _sorry._ I’m sorry, I’m—fuck,” Michael breathed in again, and this time he knew Jeremy could hear how inhumanly unsteady it was, and began to cry at the mere thought of Jeremy worrying about him. He spoke again before Jeremy could interject, “I’m—I did. Do everything wr—wrong. I don’t want to. I wanna—” He sighed. “’m sorry. You’re—you—you’re wastin’ your time with me, with me here, and I don’t wanna—Jeremy you— you’re worth— _more_ than—” His words sounded like sharp chord progressions in his mind. God, he was embarrassing. Michael rubbed his hands over his face, and the choked sound he’d made shortly thereafter? He’d be proud to not remember it the next day.

_“Michael, are you—I’m—what?”_ He heard Jeremy laugh. Laugh. Laugh at his words, at his accusation that Jeremy shouldn’t be talking to him ever again because once Michael was proved to not be worth it, he wasn’t, that was the end of the story, but he took it as Jeremy laughed at _him._ The wonders of hard liquor on a lightweight teenage boy without any sustenance in his system.

He actually whimpered. What a fucking tool. “Jeremy, stop,” a child. “Please.”

_“What in living hell are you talking about? I’m worth more than…”_

Michael heard riots. He heard battalions, and he heard Jeremy coming right for him. To destroy him. He choked again. “Jeremy.”

_“Michael, you are so fucking drunk,”_ Oh. Yeah, he was. Michael could feel the softness of his own bed again. _“…M…”_ Jeremy sighed. He did a lot of that around Michael. He felt worse.

And then, something incredible happened.

Either that, or the worst thing Michael had ever come to know.

Jeremy’s voice was pointed. _“Talk to me.”_

Michael scoffed, wet and disgusting, and rubbed his eyes on his sleeve. “About what?”

Jeremy wasn’t having it. _“Talk to me, Michael.”_

Michael didn’t need very long to gather his thoughts. “…I… Jeremy—” The alcohol had complete control, fuck, it really did have complete control—Michael had no say in what he was doing, thinking, or saying. He really, really wish he did, and that his brain didn’t decide that it was time to tell the truth about absolutely everything he’d ever known. “…I’m _sorry._ I don’t know what e—else you want me to say. I’m sorry. You deserve more than… than…”

_“More than what, Michael?”_

“More than…” He made a high sound as he breathed in sharply, his tears flowing again just as freely as they had moments before. “…Fuck.”

Jeremy hesitated a moment, but he responded. _“I’ll be over soon.”_

That gave him a spike of fucking anxiety. “What? Dude, no!”

_“What do you mean? I’ve been to your place without warning trillions of times. You shouldn’t be alone right now.”_ Was that hurt in Jeremy’s voice?

“Jeremy, you don’t—”

_“I didn’t have to break up with Christine, either, but I did that.”_

…And did a microphone just drop?

Michael felt himself choke on his own words. Jeremy and Christine weren’t even _together?_ After all that fucking shit, Jeremy and Christine didn’t even get to be _happy?_

Well, now Michael felt even fucking worse. Jeremy wasn’t going to share why he’d done it. Not that Michael would ask. Not that it was all Michael would be able to think about, now. Jeremy clearly had something unpleasant going on in his life if he couldn’t stay with the girl of his dreams. God, he must have something _real fucked up_ going on if he was on the phone with _Michael,_ telling him he was going to actually come see him fucking face to face—

_“—Michael? Michael, dude, oh God, please respond, you’re scaring me—”_

He wasn’t a fucking charity case. Jeremy was only scared.

“I’m fine,” Michael brought his old friend back, with a voice much more developed than his own. He hoped the faux wisdom would one day seep into his own mind once and for all. “Stay home. Promise.” Michael was going to be sick.

_“Dude. No.”_

He didn’t respond right away, but when he heard Jeremy’s keys jingling, he felt the urge to just fucking end it. “Stop. Stop, stop, stop, stop, stop—I’m _okay,_ Jeremy—” His voice broke on the last syllable. Of course. He was _him, a_ fter all.

Jeremy hung up the phone.

There it was.

Michael wished that would have been the end of their interactions forever.

He threw his phone onto the floor. Thankfully, it landed on a beanbag. He would have regretted that one in a few short hours.

He turned onto his stomach, and slid his hands up the mattress as he arched his back, trying to feel all of the comfort that he could in the bedsheets, relishing in the warmth of a blanket, and the feeling that nothing bad could really happen to him there. Home invasions were always an inevitable possibility, sure, but he could just get out of his bed if that were to happen to him by unfortunate circumstance. Here, no one and nothing could touch him. It was just Michael and his _incomprehensibly_ soft bed, promising him warmth, something to keep with him on cold nights alone—

Why was his bedroom door opening? Who the fuck—

“Michael…” He heard Jeremy and… whatever that tone he’d had. He’d had something in his voice, and neither of them particularly liked it.

Michael twisted his torso to raise himself just enough to see Jeremy. He felt the whole world start to spin rapidly as he did so. Jeremy must have noticed, because he looked equally disappointed and loyal, and the combination alone made Michael feel fucking sick to his stomach. He sat down on the edge of the bed. Afraid to be near him. Michael didn’t blame him.

He opened his mouth to talk, but he quickly shut it when he realized he’d felt fucking _dizzy._ Jeremy almost jumped twenty feet in the air as he put both hands on his face and gently rested his head back down onto the pillow.

Michael swallowed, though his mouth was much dryer than he ever had remembered it being before. “…You’re here.”

Jeremy chuckled, and through the tears, Michael smiled. “Yeah. And you are _way_ more wasted than I thought, dude… what did you have?”

Michael pointed to his empty can of coke on the ground, as if Jeremy could draw conclusions from that alone. Somehow, he did, and the shaking of his head was… fond. Far less intrusive. “You’re an idiot.”

Michael would have rolled his eyes if it didn’t already feel rough enough with the world spinning on its axis right before his very eyes. “The thought’s cross… my mine—mind.”

Oh. Well. Maybe that wasn’t quite the right thing to say, because the soft thread of fingers through his hair came to a halt, and Jeremy looked about ready to punch Michael’s lights in again. Or maybe that was just how Michael was taking it.

Jeremy wished that he knew what to say. He really, really didn’t. And he just wanted Michael to feel okay, to feel wanted, appreciated, and safe. Loved. Jeremy swallowed.

“No, you’re an idiot for…” He shook his head, raised a hand in frustration, and then put that hand through his own hair instead of Michael’s. Michael frowned, and when the hand came back down to Jeremy’s lap, he closed his eyes, tried to somehow mime the cuteness of a cat, and held his hand to bring it back to his own hair. Jeremy felt his heart pound twenty times harder than it had been before. And he looked at Michael as he started to run his fingers through the slightly sweaty strands, over and over, massaging certain parts of his scalp at some point, with the most intense and… beauty-filled gaze he ever had. In his entire life.

This was getting out of hand. All of it. Everything they’d ever done together, everything that had ever torn them apart, everything was building, and building, but Jeremy didn’t know what it was building to.

Michael sat up. Jeremy furrowed his eyebrows, and started to back up a little, as if Michael was going to run out of the room sick. And he was. But first—

First he closed his eyes, and he leaned forward, and he ducked his head down shyly. He couldn’t even bear to see Jeremy’s face when he did this.

He kissed the space between his shoulder and collarbone. Sloppy, drunken, insecure, and very, very Michael. It wasn’t just friendly. But Michael knew that nobody else knew that. And he had already done his very best to make himself seem like a total loser that night, and his cake didn’t really need another layer.

When he looked up, a warmth covering his entire face apart from the alcohol, he saw Jeremy’s eyes had closed, and his mouth had parted. His cheeks were pink. His hands were tense. And he looked like he was feeling so much that he was about to explode.

Michael was about to explode.

Michael was going to be sick.

He stood up, slapping a hand over his mouth, and ran crisscrossed all the way to the bathroom, slamming the door shut and emptying every bad decision he’d ever made into the toilet. The tears didn’t stop, not really, but that wasn’t news.

And when he came out of the bathroom, God only _knows_ how much later, he was all alone.


	5. five.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Long live Jeremy Heere’s friendship. Ha. The joke of that is the matter of Michael lamenting and mourning the fact that he was a victim of circumstance, and that Jeremy hated him, and his pity party kept growing and growing in size until that night happened.

Long live Jeremy Heere’s friendship. Ha. The joke of that is the matter of Michael lamenting and mourning the fact that he was a victim of circumstance, and that Jeremy hated him, and his pity party kept growing and growing in size until _that night_ happened. Michael, for one, liked to pretend that it hadn’t. Jeremy liked to. Michael had tried texting him a stupid picture Sunday night, but no response came. Oh! And on Monday, when Jeremy didn’t look his way, and spent the entire time fucking _nervously_ huddled around Christine, and Brooke, and Rich, and Jake, and Chloe, and even fucking _Jake,_ Michael felt his head was going to explode. Really.

What was Jeremy even nervous _about?_ That Michael was going to walk up to him and suddenly welcome any and all of Jeremy Heere? Michael could have done a lot fucking worse.

That’s not to say that he wasn’t ashamed. Nobody could imagine how ashamed he was. He kissed Jeremy Heere, and, sure, it’d been on the shoulder at best, but he, _completely unprecedented,_ let down every last one of his devices and he was stupid enough to show him exactly what he was terrified of saying. Now, they weren’t just on two different pages, they were in the middle of two different volumes entirely.

He should have noticed that this was their inevitable future. Jeremy started avoiding him the first time he was finally getting comfortable. Michael didn’t even notice it at the time, not really, but as he and Jeremy hung out that first night his basement, he started to care less and less about how much he hated them and the situation, and started to fall back into the lovesick pattern that was Jeremy Heere. And yet, Jeremy started fidgeting, and stuttering, and claiming his dad had to go Christmas shopping with him. One, right, like they were suddenly bonding functionally, and two, Jeremy was _Jewish._ Had he thought that Michael had forgotten? Sure, they always got each other gifts every December for the sake of their relationship—there’s that word—but, really. If Jeremy wanted to go home, he fucking could have. Jeremy showed up _first._

_All this shit—Jeremy started first!_

But here Michael was, alas, looking and feeling like a total fucking idiot. Borderline stalking Jeremy through the halls, keeping tabs on who he talked to and why, cranking his music up unnecessarily loud with his hood up as he swaggered solo throughout the day. He walked like he meant it. So the message wasn’t hard to get. If only he meant it.

Michael felt like he was suffocating in his own fucking silence. He felt like Jeremy was choking him, just from the tight grip his had on the rope between them, and every time he stretched it out further and pulled it tighter and tighter, Michael had to count his blessings that he was still alive at all.

“Michael!”

A sweet voice. A sweet sound, Michael didn’t even think something that pretty should be allowed to say his name.

Christine Canigula.

He raised his eyebrows, slid his headphones around his neck, and ignored the pang of annoyance he felt at the fact that he was most definitely missing the rest of the song.

She smiled at him, and it was tentative, at best, as if he were a caged animal she’d come to adopt. Oh, fucking, boy.

“…Hi,” she said with a voice just a tad too loud, as if all of her energy was threatening to escape her and grab hold of Michael any second, and she had to focus to keep it all contained. Michael didn’t reply. He was a bit too afraid she’d just burst at the seams. “Could we—um,” she laughed a little bit, tilting her chin down. Michael recognized the mannerism immediately. He didn’t know who delivered it cuter: she, or Jeremy. “well, would you maybe want to grab coffee or—tea, or something, after school? With me?”

When Michael looked confused— _scared—_ she held her hands up as if to wave off the thought that he had done something out of line.

“I just mean that I wanted to talk to you! It’s nothing horrific, I swear. And if you’re busy it’s—really no big deal, you know, I’m not dying, It just… is… well, you know,” she let out a breath. Her eyes looked disappointed. She was losing the battle with her calm and composed self, as her breathing and voice picked up in volume and speed. “I know you haven’t been all buddy-buddy with Jeremy recently, and it probably sounds sinister to say and then leave it at that, but I really wanted to talk to you about it. If—that’s okay. If it’s not, like, incredibly personal and if the family secret gets out you’re screwed or something like that. But it’s okay! It’s so okay…” He huffed out, making a small sound with it.

Michael stared at her until the storm blew over.

And then he glanced to the side, as if he were being filmed, because w _hat the fuck? No, he really didn’t fucking want to talk to or about Jeremy ever, ever again._

He thought he’d seen a boy all too familiar standing anxiously at the set of lockers behind Christine, but the passing of people were too fast for him to confirm.

“…Yeah, I mean, I guess, yeah. You and me?”

Christine looked superbly relieved, and she nodded again as she smiled. “Yeah! I’ll… meet you at the back entrance? That’s where the parking lot is, right?”

Michael bit the inside of his cheek. A genuine smile appeared on his face. Maybe all he needed was a bit of generalized attention. Someone pointing out the fact that he still went to school here every day and he still walked and talked and ate and breathed. And then he’d never need validation to make himself feel good ever again.

“Yeah. Cool. I know this, um… this place, that’s really chilled out and private, over in Oradell. So we don’t…” He glanced around at everyone else, hoping she’d get what he _meant._ Jeremy was confidential shit, and he didn’t want anyone else to ever know how pathetic the situation was.

Christine was different.

If Jeremy hadn’t already claimed her as his supposed best friend, Michael would have given anything for the chance.

And, as it turned out, meeting with Christine wasn’t all that scary.

All she’d wanted to say was that Jeremy wasn’t feeling too hot, especially as of late, and she had _definitely not had any kind of confrontation with him before their meeting at Cool Beans,_ and all she wanted was for Jeremy to be okay again. Michael did, too. Go figure. Michael wanted himself to be okay again. Where was his support group?

_Alright, enough with this pity party bullshit, asshole._

He probably should not have been drinking even more caffeine that late in the day, but it was calling to him, and—wasn’t coffee a comfort food? It sure felt like one. Especially when Christine insisted on buying the both of them pastries to complete the aesthetic.

“I mean, like,” she licked a line of foam off of her upper lip, “you and Jeremy aren’t fighting or anything, right? Like, people drift apart! And that’s totally fine! I just… am worried about him. And you two were always…” Her hands came together, inching closer and closer until her fingers entwined and it formed the dreaded ‘connected’ symbol. Michael felt his heart pounding in his ears.

“Uh—” He swallowed, toes tapping on the ground a bit, and bit into his pastry to earn himself a few more seconds of a reaction. “…No? No, not to my knowledge, nah. Nope. No. Why?”

Christine wasn’t dumb, and Michael, like fucking always, wished he would have kept his goddamn mouth _shut._ “…You sure? Because, like… I’m not his guardian, or anything. If you are fighting, I’d just kindly ask you to suck it up and be there for him.”

God, be there for _what?_ The Squip was gone. Michael did the dumbest thing any human being with intense feelings could do, and Jeremy left. It felt very much like Halloween, and the time after.

“Christine. If Jeremy wants to talk to me, he obviously _can._ I can’t sit here and tell him that I’m… y’know,” he took another sip of his coffee.

Christine didn’t know what, and, truthfully, Michael didn’t, either.

He deflected the rest of the interaction, and some time after, when he was driving home from Christine’s house, wherein she had texted him that Jeremy was _sensitive,_ and that Michael should be aware of that, and just to ‘keep an eye on him.’ As if Michael didn’t already know things about Jeremy.

He blanched as the words broke in his window and hit him in the form of a strong wind, _Do you really? Anymore?_

So Jeremy wasn’t telling Christine all about how much he hated him, evidently.

Michael was starting to think he’d have liked that better.

Michael felt so small and so useless in Jeremy’s life. The only part about this that hurt Michael so deeply, besides the fact that Jeremy was clearly hurting in some capacity, was that Jeremy didn’t want enough to do with him to even _talk_ about him. He didn’t bother to mention what had happened with him, and he didn’t bother to tell Christine that he made Jeremy feel bad enough to want to leave, and he just didn’t… it didn’t _mean_ anything to him. Michael wasn’t asking to be the villain in Jeremy’s story, he just wanted some kind of fucking supporting role.

And the reason for his reflection—of course—is that he’d done his very best to completely remove himself from reality that night in any capacity—though he didn’t dare drink more hard liquor, not while his thoughts and feelings regarding Jeremy ran rampant, in a dizzying, nauseous loop all day long. His phone buzzed and rang and shook him from his sleep at 3 AM, promptly.

_From: Jeremy_

_Do you remember Saturday night?_

Michael stared at his phone. And he stared, and he stared, and he stared, and then he dropped it, rolled his eyes, and jammed his palms into his eyes. Did he fucking remember— _yes._ He did. Loud and fucking clear. Jeremy had sat there, and Michael had done something that might have been brushed off with an awkward laugh and a joke about how they were ‘boyfriends’—oh.

Ouch.

That one hit Michael for a second. And it didn’t feel pretty.

_To: Jeremy_

_…What part of Saturday night?_

Michael considered his options. If he joked around like it was nothing, and talked like they did nothing and felt nothing at all, Jeremy would drop it and probably never speak to him again.

But if he were serious, and gave this the attention it deserved, and took everything Jeremy dished out to him, Michael would come across as nervous. And he was through with being seen as the pissbaby.

_To: Jeremy_

_I remember playing Until Dawn for the fortieth time, I remember drinking, like, half a bottle of Hennessey, and then I remember meeting the Pope, and I remember hearing colors. Why?_

He felt his chest rise and fall uncomfortably as he awaited a reply.

_From: Jeremy_

_Michael, please._

He swallowed.

He was pretty tired of confronting things over text. As a matter of fact, he was pretty tired of confronting anything at all.

_To: Jeremy:_

_Yeah. I remember Saturday night, Jere._

Five minutes, ten minutes, twenty, Michael needed an escape. From his room, reality, Jeremy, the fucking devil that thrust them into this situation.

_To: Jeremy_

_Jeremy, I’m sorry_

He didn’t know why, but he knew Jeremy was fixating on the same same thing he was, and he knew that Jeremy was upset by it.

Michael had made slips in his lifetime.

Anyone would.

Michael had told him how much he loved him before, cuddled him after smoking copious amounts of weed, and told him all about how pretty his biceps were, and downright giggling at Jeremy’s blushing while he held them and drew his fingers lightly across, watching as he shuddered and opened his mouth as if he was finally going to say what Michael had dreamed he would—

But they were never quite in this boat before, and Michael had never been quite so bold in a place and time that did not warrant it. It made it stand out. It made it feel crucial, like Michael’s feelings were encompassing him from head to toe and he just had to prove it to Jeremy or else he wouldn’t ever feel okay again.

_To: Jeremy_

_Christine talked to me today. She mentioned that you were a little under the weather._

He resisted asking whether it had meant emotionally or physically.

_To: Jeremy_

_But, yeah. Uh. Yeah. Guess you fell asleep, or something. It’s pretty late. I’m gonna turn in. I’m sorry for the mess you’re gonna wake up to, though._

He felt… he felt…

_From: Jeremy:_

_I didn’t mean to leave._

He felt…

What did that _mean?_ He didn’t mean to—because Michael was sick? Because—because he wanted to ask what the hell the kiss meant, on Michael’s end? Because it was cold outside? What the hell was it?

His silence had to have made Jeremy anxious, though that was, of course, not at all his intention. Another message came in.

_From: Jeremy_

_Yeah, you should. I’m gonna turn in too. Goodnight, Michael._

It felt so…

Jeremy never signed his texts off like that. It was never so formal, so—

That one didn’t feel uncomfortably formal, which was… strange.

It felt like Jeremy was trying to say something else, but only those two little beautifully printed words could make it out.

Michael put him at the forefront of his mind, though there was no argument and no contest, raised his blinds in the window at the very top of the basement wall, and fell asleep to the imprints of the moon, praying that Jeremy could tell from wherever he was.


	6. six.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael slouched, ducking his head and bringing his arms up to his chest delicately, like a child facing a monster.
> 
> And Jeremy looked scared shitless.
> 
> Jeremy wasn’t going to hurt him.

Christine had made quite an impression on Michael, and, as it seemed, she was destined to continue. They talked. Sometimes. When Michael really needed a friend, and when Christine could find time amidst her busy schedule, they talked a great deal. In fact, Michael had shown up to a coffee date with her _just_ high enough to tell her secrets that he had never worked up the courage to tell Jeremy, even when they were close.

In a way, he told her to spite him. It was like putting a bow on a present. Now they really weren’t each other’s go-to. Christine knew things Jeremy didn’t.

So, seeing her at school wasn’t something out of a nightmare. Just a few short weeks ago, it could have been. But now, Michael could smile to himself and admit that she made him _happy._

 “Michael!” He’d heard something of a high-pitched yell, and unmistakable waving through a crowd of tense students. He furrowed his eyebrows, and only as she approached did he gently slide off his headphones. 8 AM. Was she really not able to give other people enough time to wake up and become what she seemed to endlessly be, in the vein of energy? “Michael, I have something for you!”

Just as her hand snuck out to present the sheet music, he felt his face burn and his eyes glaze over.

Christine didn’t notice, and she almost seemed to sing, “You said you’d learn it for me. Remember?”

Christine wasn’t the only one there. Of fucking course she wasn’t.

Peaking out right off her shoulder was a slouched, anxious looking Jeremy Heere. It was almost instinctive to greet him, but Michael decided the best course of action was to pretend the world revolved around Christine Canigula. He was sure Jeremy would understand.

His hand was frozen around the neatly printed pages, and Christine cocked her head. “…Michael?”

He didn’t look up, but he knew Jeremy had a confused look on his face. Because he couldn’t leave without Christine, heaven forbid. Which meant that Michael’s ‘one-up’ power move was being taken away from him. Jeremy was listening.

God, it was such a stupid, personal thing, too. He was sure Jeremy wouldn’t care either way, but Michael _liked_ knowing that he had officially moved on, to some capacity. It was a small step, but it was a step.

“I couldn’t find a purely piano version, but I doubt you’ll find the vocal staves too confusing, right?” Christine figured that talking was the answer. Go figure. Michael couldn’t.

He cleared his throat, and forced a chuckle as he held the papers close to his chest, as if shielding it from the world. “…Uh. Yeah. Yeah, that’s… I’ll learn. It. Thanks for…” He drummed his fingers on the paper, and then slapped it lightly, “printing it! Thanks.”

He could feel Jeremy staring at him. He could feel Jeremy staring at him. He could feel Jeremy staring, and staring, and staring, until Christine smiled wide, and then tugged at Jeremy’s sleeve. “Okay, we’re gonna be late. I’ll text you after school?” She was gone.

Michael let out a long breath, and panicked for but a split second when he could not _breathe back in._

When they had walked away, Jeremy seemed to shift his head confusedly. Almost like a nervous twitch. He was feeling nervous. Why wouldn’t he? “Did… Is—what was that?”

Christine didn’t understand.

“What was what?”

“That… thing you gave Michael.”

“Sheet music?” Christine giggled a little, but the look she gave Jeremy spared no mercy. It was as if he’d had three heads. “You’ve seen sheet music before, Jeremy.”

“I have! I mean—yeah, I have—but why were you giving it to him to—to learn? Michael doesn’t sing.”

Christine’s look was penetrating, and Jeremy felt like his face was starting to actually burn from it. When did this turn into a fucking interrogation? “No, he doesn’t,” she was speaking in a baby voice, like she’d expect Jeremy to already know what she was going to say. And he _didn’t._ “That’s why I gave it to him to _play.”_

Jeremy was confused, but not angry. “…Play _what,_ Christine? That’s what I’m asking. I don’t get—”

Christine laughed again, but this one seemed more worried than good-natured. “The piano? Jeremy, really? I get that you guys are having… differences, or whatever it is that you’re having, but he was your best friend and all.”

Jeremy had stopped walking for a few seconds too long. Some kid bumped into him and Jeremy felt more parts of his body burning where it should not be.

Michael played the piano? Since when? It hadn’t been that long since they’d stopped speaking. That was not enough time to learn something like that. Which meant that Michael had been…

Was… Had Michael been… _hiding_ things from him? What the hell? They were _best friends._ Michael knew just about everything about Jeremy, and vice—well, he’d _thought_ that it was vice-versa. And it was such a stupid, stupidly insignificant thing. But, God, what _else_ was going on that they weren’t talking about? Michael getting stupidly drunk out of nowhere—Michael hardly ever drank alcohol. Michael kissing him—that wasn’t a _real_ kiss, but… he’d _kissed him._ While stupidly drunk. At a time when there was no reason for it. At a time when it was unprecedented, and non-joking. And Jeremy freaked out and left.

…Jeremy freaked out and left—again. No wonder Michael had kept things from him.

Jeremy had no right to feel angry about this whole piano fiasco, but he did. Angry with Michael. For reasons he shouldn’t be. Again.

Jeremy stiffly turned at the sound of the bell, and nearly missed Christine’s sudden look of concern regarding his reaction.

He was good. He was real good. He didn’t text Michael until later that night, when the sun had set, and Jeremy was feeling progressively worse, even more than he had all day.

_To: Michael_

_I’m coming over._

Michael could feel his temperature rising, and his body stilling at the text on the screen. Jeremy. Coming there? What was it with him and assuming they could do things like that again?

Michael’s hands fidgeted, and he quickly smoked the last little drag, and then rolled his eyes as he blew it into a cardboard roll stuffed with cotton. Of course Jeremy was going to ruin last high of his stash. What was next, was he going to punch Michael in the face? Tell him something he didn’t want to hear regarding his newfound companionship with Christine? Michael knew the list of things that he’d done to piss Jeremy off never seemed to end, but really, he couldn’t think of a single thing that would prompt a confrontation, now, of all times.

He’d heard the doorbell ring not very long thereafter. And as he’d stood to head upstairs and answer it, he remembered that his mother was home, and Michael was suddenly _screwed._

He didn’t have time to put on pants, so he hopped back into his bed and used the blanket to cover himself up to his waist, and braced himself for the takedown.

He casually leaned back against the wall, using one hand to lazily flip through the television channels as if he hadn’t heard a thing. His phone was laying facedown on the ground, it was believable enough.

He feigned shock when Jeremy— _tried_ to barge in. He was still as clumsy and delicate as ever. Michael wished he didn’t find it endearing.

“…Oh… Jeremy?”

Jeremy hesitated, and right after the awkward angling of his body and slight tripping over his toes, his look of perseverance was completely eradicated. Instead, he looked like he’d made a grave mistake. “You… I texted you.”

Michael looked down at his phone on the ground, slowly—he’d wondered if Jeremy could tell how gone he was.

“Yeah…” He drawled, and then used his free hand to awkwardly tilt back and forth, and then rub the back of his neck. “It was… off.”

Just then, his phone buzzed on the ground. Michael wished he’d lived anywhere else in the country.

Jeremy rubbed his hands over his thighs, and then slid them up to his hips, searching, and searching, and clearly working to master another look of dissatisfaction. Michael had gotten used to that look from Jeremy, quite quickly.

“What’s up, man?”

Jeremy didn’t shift his weight, because he knew that if he moved, he would lose his composure again. “You’re not talking to me about something—”

“Well, I think we’ve kinda talked about that, haven’t we?”

Jeremy glared. And then started over in the exact same voice. “You’re not talking to me about something, and I’m tired of playing this game.”

Michael hated losing his head around Jeremy. And he wasn’t even angry. He was, dare he say, _bored._ All Jeremy ever did was take, and take, and take, and here Michael was being accused of not giving enough. So, he kept his head calm, and he rested his remote-holding hand gently on his knee, and tried to keep all emotion possible out of his voice. With more practice, it was getting easier, too. “Which game, Jeremy? Ours, or yours?”

That made Jeremy’s mouth hang open, and Michael couldn’t even fully feel victorious. He was hurting him. Michael hated doing that. He felt guilty, just for giving Jeremy a reality check. He was softer than he’d ever fucking admit.

Jeremy stormed over to the bed, just then, as if he had learned to do it somewhere foreign and the movements weren’t exactly his own. He was determined, but not maliciously. He just looked like he had something to say, but his actions were carrying through for him. His heart pounded in his chest. This was it. This was the time. He thought that he had it right, he thought he had calculated the somewhat-kiss, the arguments, his own personal hell and yearning all correctly. Michael already hated him. He might as well do exactly as his instincts instructed, because for once, he felt like they were _right._ He leaned forward on the bed, fists holding himself up on either side of Michael’s knees.

And Michael cowered in fear.

Michael slouched, ducking his head and bringing his arms up to his chest delicately, like a child facing a monster.

And Jeremy looked scared shitless.

Jeremy wasn’t going to hurt him.

Jeremy wanted to do the exact _opposite_ of fighting him, or, or—

Jeremy felt all the oxygen possible leave his body, and felt his heart fall down a few flights as he watched.

Michael had him all wrong, Jeremy realized, all at once. They were nowhere near being on the same page. Michael had expected Jeremy to hurt him. And now, Michael looked like he might cry, and like he was not in the mood for Jeremy to pick another fight with him, and Jeremy felt so small as he moved away from him.

“…Michael, I wasn’t going to—the SQUIP isn’t—”

But Michael’s eyes were shut tight, and he looked run-down, like he had been taking shit day after day from the world, and Jeremy was just another obstacle trying to make his life a living hell. And he was breathing heavily.

Oh, shit, he was breathing _really_ really—

“Michael?” Jeremy’s own voice felt so far away, and he gently approached the bed again, this time he knelt with only one knee at least a foot away from him, and put one hand on the bedsheet. Very, very gingerly, he slid it to one of Michael’s knees. “…Michael, come on, dude, you’re freaking me out…”

When Michael’s eyebrows twitched as if he didn’t want the contact, Jeremy stilled. But something was going on inside his head, and Jeremy would be damned if he was going to walk away again and let it _stay_ inside his head. He didn’t move any closer, but rubbed his thumb back and forth with baited breath.

And he could sit there all night, if he needed.


End file.
